


when you sneak into a wake and you see a beefcake

by napricot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Life-Affirming Bad Decisions Sex, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napricot/pseuds/napricot
Summary: "Sam is pretty damn sure thatspend a not insignificant amount of time thirsting after your best friend’s best friendis nowhere on the list of right ways to grieve, and he’s near certain thathave wild, life-affirming, bad decisions sex with your best friend’s best friendis not a well-adjusted thing to want to do after a funeral."aka Sam's Bad Post-Funeral, Post-Coming Back from the Dead Decisions, and how they might not be so bad after all.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 66
Kudos: 506
Collections: this some grown meme shit





	when you sneak into a wake and you see a beefcake

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Lonely Island's song "The Creep". Written for a fic sprint with said title as the prompt, and I am indeed SPRINTING across the finish line at the very last second.
> 
> As per usual, my willingness to deal with Endgame's bullshit is minimal: for the purposes of this fic, Natasha's alive, Steve doesn't stay in the past.

“Couldn’t find a suit for the funeral, huh?” says Sam as Barnes gets in the car.

He only catches a glimpse of dark pants and a close-cut black or dark blue jacket, and then Barnes is sliding into the backseat. In the rear view mirror, Sam spots the flash of Barnes’ startlingly ocean waters-blue, harried glare.

“I just came back from the dead for the second time, this time after being actually, literally dead for five years, I’m in a country I haven’t lived in for decades, where I only really know one person, pretty much, and I just fought a battle with space aliens to save the universe. There was a walking, talking _tree_ , and a talking _raccoon with a machine gun,_ who asked if he could have my _arm_. We traveled across the planet through a _portal_ made by a _wizard,_ onto the smoking wreckage of the Avengers compound.” Barnes’ voice has been gaining speed and some strained vehemence, and now he stops to take a slow, deep breath. When he lets it out, his voice is back to its usual even and soft-spoken tones, which is, honestly, kind of more concerning. “So no, Wilson, I couldn’t find a suit for the _funeral_ of the guy whose _parents I killed_.”

Okay, that’s fair, thinks Sam, nodding, as he considers the appropriate response to the most words he has ever heard come out of Barnes’ mouth in one go. It’s true that sheer luck is the only reason that Sam had managed to scrounge a funeral appropriate suit up for himself. Luck, and quite possibly, actual theft. Which, whatever, a stolen suit is the least of anyone’s problems right about now. It turns out that undoing an apocalypse leads to about as much chaos as the actual apocalypse, and also, coming back from the dead is—well, stressful. See Exhibit 1: James Buchanan Barnes, currently attempting to deep breathe his way through said stress.

Out of some vague sense of contrition, Sam offers, “Want me to move my seat up?”

“No,” says Barnes, his voice flat. Sam stifles a wince and starts the car. Well, he’d tried.

After a moment of awkward silence, Wanda says, “Um. Did you want the front seat, Bucky? Because I can move—”

“I’m fine back here, thank you, Wanda.”

So it’s a pretty awkward drive from the remains of the Avengers compound to Stark’s lake house.

* * *

Sam doesn’t handle funerals well. Yeah, okay, who does, sure. It’s not a thing anyone wants to have a lot of experience with, and grief is its own unique, personally tailored natural disaster for each person. The best anyone can hope for is to get through it, and Sam’s a counselor—or was, anyway. He knows most everyone thinks they’re doing a funeral wrong: not crying enough, crying too much, not saying the right thing to the bereaved, not doing enough, doing too much…he’s told plenty of people that there’s no right way to grieve, that they should be gentle with themselves after a funeral.

Still, Sam is pretty damn sure that _spend a not insignificant amount of time thirsting after your best friend’s best friend_ is nowhere on the list of right ways to grieve, and he’s near certain that _have wild, life-affirming, bad decisions sex with your best friend’s best friend_ is not a well-adjusted thing to want to do after a funeral. 

And yet, as the Avengers and company slowly assemble at the lakeside for the service, that’s what Sam’s doing, that’s what Sam wants, because it turns out that Barnes’ definitely-not-a-suit funeral attire is a lot to deal with. What had looked like nondescript, close-fitting dark clothes in the car, are revealed to be a pair of unnecessarily tight black skinny jeans and a black biker jacket, and Sam has way too much time to appreciate this too-good look as they wait around by the lakeside.

Sam’s got eyes and he’s a red-blooded, bisexual man, he’s always known Barnes is a handsome, attractive guy—at least, he is when he’s not in Winter Soldier mode. But had Sam always known Barnes has legs that go for days? Is it just the slim cut of the biker jacket making Barnes’ trim waist look like the best possible place for Sam to rest his hands? Is it only the slight breeze that keeps calling Sam’s attention to the soft waves of Barnes’ hair, the way it keeps falling over his face and his too-blue eyes so that he has to brush it back?

Or is it, as Sam suspects as he jerks his stare away before Barnes can notice, just that the last goddamn thing he wants to think about is everything he’s lost: five years and Tony Stark and Clint Barton and the Steve and Natasha he’d known and who knows what else. Sam had been dead or nonexistent or _something,_ and now he’s not, and he’d been a fugitive and now he’s who knows what, and he’d helped save the world but it’s a world he no longer recognizes.

 _Fuck_.

He paces away from the quiet conversations and check-ins happening all around him— _how are you doing, how’s the clean up going at the compound, how are Pepper and Morgan holding up, have you seen Cap and Romanoff_ —and heads for the nearest patch of empty woods, and just tries to breathe, slow and deep. Barnes had managed it in the car earlier, after his little freakout, so surely Sam can manage it too. He knows how he’s supposed to do this, he’s supposed to breathe in and out slowly, counting it out. He’s supposed to focus on the tangible reality around him: the scent of pine and water on the air, the slight breeze and the bright sunlight; the cool air against the clammy skin at the back of his neck, his body, real and solid, though just a few days ago, his body hadn’t been real or solid at all, he’d been—

“Wilson. Hey, Wilson. _Sam._ You with me?” Sam looks up, hands on knees and gasping for air, air that doesn’t feel real for all the good it’s doing, and sees Barnes, who puts a hand between his shoulder blades. “C’mon, take it easy. Follow my lead, okay? In, one, two, three…”

“How are you not freaking out still?” Sam gasps out, because there’s nothing but steady, certain calm in Barnes’ eyes. “We were _dead_ , we were _dust_ for _five years_ , and now Stark and Barton are deadand I guess _they’re_ not coming back and everything’s fucked up and weird—”

“Yeah, I’ve been dead before, I’ve missed a lot more than five years before, and as far as I’m concerned, everything’s been fucked up and weird since HYDRA defrosted me,” says Barnes, his voice soft and low as he rubs Sam’s back. “So take it from me: it’ll pass, Wilson. Just breathe, alright?”

Barnes sounds so damn sure, and there’s no fear in his eyes, only the barest hint of worry. Plus, with the beard and the long hair, Barnes has a definite white Jesus vibe going and that’s kind of comforting, even if it is also confusing on account of how it clashes with the horny feelings Sam’s having thanks to the tight pants and general tall dark and handsome situation. When Sam straightens back up, Barnes steps closer, his warm hand still on Sam’s back as if to steady him, and there’s just something so goddamn _still_ about him, an undeniable solidity that’s all the gravity Sam needs to keep from flying apart. In one flash of wild heat, Sam knows exactly what he wants his post-funeral, post-coming back from the dead bad decision to be: getting in Bucky Barnes’ ridiculously tight pants.

“Better now?” asks Barnes, oblivious to the wholly inappropriate turn Sam’s thoughts have taken.

Sam nods, his breathing back to normal now, the general existential horror fading in favor of vague arousal.

“Thanks,” Sam says, and Barnes steps back, still watchful.

It’s not the kind of attention Sam wants right now; there’s no heat in it, no want, only concern. And when the moment between them stretches out into a too-long silence, that concern shifts to awkwardness, until Barnes looks away.

“Looks like Steve and the others are back,” says Barnes, looking towards the drive where a couple of SUV’s are pulling up.

Stark’s family and the original Avengers had been the only ones to attend the graveside service—a request out of Stark’s will, apparently—and now they’ve returned for the more public lakeside memorial service. It’s far from the flashy, overwrought funeral Sam might have once expected from a guy like Tony Stark. Surely a guy who’d stamped his name across one of Manhattan’s tallest skyscrapers should’ve had a blowout of a funeral, with all the world’s rich and powerful in attendance to cry and speechify. But maybe Stark had changed some time in the last five years, or maybe the world had, or both, because instead there’s only this: a few dozen people to quietly bear witness and say one last goodbye to a hero who’d made the last and greatest sacrifice to save them all.

Before the service starts, Steve and Natasha head their way. Seeing them, Sam’s struck again by the awful reality of the five years he’s lost, the five brutal years Steve and Natasha had endured, because Steve and Nat look so much older, so much more tired, lines of grief and unhappiness etched deeply onto their faces. But they both smile when they see Sam and Wanda and Barnes, and if Steve’s smile has more than just a tinge of desperate relief in it, Sam’s not going to point it out. He just accepts the long, clinging hug that Steve greets him with, and doesn’t protest when Steve reels Barnes in too.

Steve’s a hugging kind of person now, apparently. Pretty much every time he sees Sam or Barnes, it’s hug time. Sam’s not exactly complaining, and he sure as hell doesn’t begrudge Steve any comfort right now, but it’s just one more weird, new thing on top of a whole lot of other weird, new things.

“I’m so glad you guys are here,” Steve says.

“Of course. How’re you two holding up?” Sam asks, and Natasha shrugs, her lips lifting in a crooked, sad smile.

“Oh, you know. Been better. But we’ve been a hell of a lot worse too,” she says. 

Sam pulls her into a hug, and she hangs on tight. Steve looks like he’s hanging onto Barnes about as tightly, and Sam and Barnes share a glance, helpless and somber. Only now does Barnes’ calm seem to falter, a spasm of exhausted pain passing over his face, but it’s only for a moment and then he’s steady again. Sam doesn’t know how the hell he’s doing it—Wakandan therapists work miracles, he supposes—he only knows that he wants to crawl inside that bubble of still calm however he can, wants to find something in Barnes to help him fill the empty spaces inside of himself that seem too big and echoing.

He knows fucking Barnes won’t fix anything, but it would be a real nice distraction right about now. And Sam really, really needs a distraction from all this grief and confusion.

* * *

Sam, Barnes, and Wanda stay towards the back during the service. This isn’t their grief, not really, but Sam still feels it, in equal measure to his gratitude. He sends a prayer up to whoever’s listening: for Stark, for his family, for Barton and his family, for the hope of peace for all of them.

When he discreetly checks on the others, he sees that Wanda has silent tears streaming down her face, so Sam fishes out a packet of tissues from his pocket and hands it to her. To his surprise, he hears Barnes sniffling too, and when he follows the direction of Barnes’ glassy stare, he sees little Morgan Stark. Sam’s chest and throat ache with tears, and he settles a light and careful hand on Barnes’ back, just like Barnes had done for him earlier.

“It’s not fair,” whispers Barnes, and looking at Pepper Potts and Stark’s young daughter, Sam knows what he means.

It doesn’t seem fair, that the likes of Sam and Barnes have been miraculously returned from the dead while Stark has left a widow and child behind. The universe doesn’t balance the ledgers of life and death like that, and it probably shouldn’t. The rest of them are going to have live with this dispassionate accounting though, they’ll have to know the heavy cost their lives were bought with.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But we’re gonna have to honor his sacrifice by making sure to be worthy of it.”

They’re the words Sam has said to countless survivor’s guilt-ridden vets at the VA group meetings, and Sam knows they’re true, he knows it’s all they can do, really. And yet, they ring hollow, as hollow and weightless and insubstantial as Sam still feels.

* * *

After the funeral, it’s time for Steve and Natasha to return the Infinity Stones and Thor’s hammer to their proper places in the timeline. Because time travel is real and normal now, Sam supposes. He’s braced for something to go horribly awry; it’s _time travel_ , for fuck’s sake, and some part of him can’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some new cruel twist to this whole incredible ordeal. But Steve and Nat say they’ll be back in five seconds, and while they blow past that deadline, it’s only by another five seconds or so, and they reappear on the time machine platform looking none the worse for wear. Though judging by the return of Steve’s beard, it’s been a lot longer than ten seconds or even a few hours for Steve and Natasha.

Banner greets them with a mix of anxiety and relief, and a healthy dose of suspicion. Sam doesn’t blame him; Steve’s looking worryingly satisfied with himself, plus he has his shield back somehow, and Natasha seems lighter, some weight lifted from her.

“So, do we have to worry about the multiverse collapsing, or…?” Banner asks, and Steve just hops down from the platform and claps him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, the Stones are back where they belong,” he says, and then it’s hug time again, for all of them. Hell, Natasha even hugs a bewildered Barnes, and before Sam knows it, Steve’s pulling him aside towards a bench by the lake.

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” asks Steve.

“Sure.”

Steve sits down with a sigh, setting the shield down so it’s lying between them on its edge.

“You remember back when we first met, when I came to see you at the VA?” Sam nods. “You asked me what made me happy, and you asked me if I was thinking of getting out. I didn’t have much of an answer for you then.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, and looks at Steve carefully. There’s a weary kind of peace in his eyes, and it sits on his face easily among the new lines there, softening some of their sorrow. “You have answers for me now?”

“I do,” Steve says. “I’m ready to give up the shield, Sam. I don’t know what makes me happy yet, other than having all of you back, but I know being Cap isn’t it, not anymore, if it ever was. So I think it’s time for me to figure out what really does make me happy.”

“I’m glad,” Sam tells him. “You deserve that, Steve, especially now.”

“Thanks, Sam. Even if I’m not gonna be Cap, the world still needs someone to carry this shield though.”

Steve picks it up, and now that Sam’s looking at it more closely, he sees that this shield is spotless, lacking any of the scorch marks or chipped and faded paint of the shield Sam had been familiar with. This version of the shield, retrieved from who knows when or where, is as bright and gleaming as if it’s been plucked right out of some painted propaganda poster. Steve passes it over to Sam. However different the shield looks, the heft of it is the same.

“And I think that someone should be you,” says Steve.

“What.”

“I think it’s past time for someone other than an old soldier to carry it. Makes it seem like the war’s never over, you know? But Sam, you—you know how to live, when the war’s over. You know how to be a hero, how to be a good man, after the war and not just during it. You know how to save people, instead of just fight for them. So I can’t think of anyone better than you to be the next Captain America.”

Tears—of shock, of pure emotion—spill over Sam’s cheeks, and he wipes them away hastily. He takes the shield. “Holy shit, Steve. I—I don’t know what to say. I—thank you? I’m—Jesus, I’m really honored.”

“You don’t have to say anything else,” says Steve with a kind smile. “Take some time to think about it, alright? I know it’s been a real overwhelming few days for you, and god knows I probably shoulda thought about it a little more before I took on the shield. There’s no real rush here, Sam, take all the time you need.”

“Yeah,” says Sam faintly. Overwhelming is a goddamn understatement. “I’ll—I’ll think about it, thanks. Just—gimme some time to wrap my head around all of this, to—to get settled again.”

“Of course,” Steve says softly, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Whatever you choose, it’s alright with me. Even if you decide not to take on the shield, you know you’ve got a place with the Avengers.”

* * *

Sam takes a walk around the lake, just trying to get his thoughts in order, to come to terms with the new normal. He’d been a fugitive and then he’d been dead, and five years had passed, and now he’s alive, and now Steve wants him to be Captain America. It’s a lot. It’s too much. The world keeps shifting under Sam’s feet, and sure, he can fly, but he needs solid ground to take off from, and there doesn’t seem to be any goddamn solid ground on offer right now. Everything’s changed, and it’s left Sam behind.

The closest thing he’s got to solid ground right now is Barnes and his ridiculous, unshakable calm. As Sam finishes his second lap around the lake, he sees Barnes sitting on the bench by the lakeshore, his spine straight and his legs crossed, his head tipped up towards the sky with his eyes closed. He’s so still he might as well be a statue. Sam must have been walking longer than he’d thought, because the light has shifted to the deep gold of late afternoon, and the gilded glow looks just as good on Barnes here as it had in Wakanda. Sam had tagged along with Steve to visit Barnes in Wakanda once, and when he’d woken just as dawn had broken, jet-lagged and bleary, he’d left the guest house to see Barnes sitting just like this, on the shore of the lake in the small border village he’d been recovering in. Meditation was, he later told Sam and Steve, part of his treatment plan. If Barnes’ current ability to cope and his frankly ridiculous level of chill are any indication, that treatment plan has been miraculously goddamn effective.

Just as Sam’s wondering how much of a faux pas it is to interrupt someone’s meditation, and how the hell Barnes is managing that crossed legs position in such tight pants anyway—the fabric of those skinny jeans is seriously straining against the muscle of Barnes’ thighs—Barnes’ stillness melts away into ease, and he unfolds himself into a more casual pose, those long legs of his stretching out in front of him as he leans back on the bench. The shift from monk-like serenity to bordering on come-and-get-it flirty body language gives Sam the first stirrings of a very confusing boner.

“Alright, Sam?” Barnes calls out, and Sam goes over to join him on the bench.

“Yeah, just thinking. Trying to, you know, wrap my head around everything. Is everyone getting ready to head back yet?”

Sam’s not even sure what he means by _back._ Back to the battle site? Back to what’s left of the Avengers compound? If Sam had thought he’d been rootless before as a fugitive superhero, that was nothing compared to now, when his immediate future is obscured by a haze of fog so thick he can barely see a few hours ahead of him. The only thing he has that’s close to a plan is to see his family once things have settled down a bit.

Barnes shakes his head. “No, most everyone who’s not headed into outer space or back to Wakanda is staying here for the night.”

“In Stark’s lake house?” asks Sam.

The place is big, sure, but it’s not _that_ big. It’ll be close quarters if they all have to squeeze in. Or they’ll have to pitch tents outside.

“No, there are some cabins on the other side of the lake, apparently.” Barnes pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and tosses them to Sam. “We’ve got one to ourselves, if you want. Wanda went back to Wakanda with Shuri, said something about Vision.”

“We?”

“You, me, Steve, Romanoff. Steve and Romanoff have some conference calls and meetings to deal with, on account of the whole undoing an apocalypse thing. Steve said we could head for the cabin whenever.”

“We’re not needed for the post-post-apocalypse conference calls, huh?”

“Not much we can add, no.” Barnes doesn’t sound too bothered about it.

“You didn’t go back to Wakanda with T’Challa and Shuri though.”

“Steve needs me here,” says Barnes easily.

Part of Sam thinks it’s rich that Barnes cares about that now, when he hadn’t given a shit about how much Steve needed him those two years they spent looking for him, but it’s an unkind and unfair thought. Barnes probably _had_ given a shit, for one, at least once he’d remembered enough, and however much Steve had needed Barnes, Sam suspects Barnes had needed the time and distance more. Still, he’s glad Barnes is sticking around for now.

“Yeah, I imagine so,” he says, then looks askance at Barnes. “I’m surprised he even let you out of his sight, to be honest.”

Barnes snorts. “You know Steve, he’s trying to act like he’s fine, but he’s not.” Barnes lifts his wrist and tugs down his jacket enough to show the metallic sheen of a vibranium bracelet, like the ones the Wakandans wear. “I gave him a direct line to my prime bead, which is probably the only reason he’s alright with not having me in his eye line.”

“He hasn’t been that clingy with me,” says Sam, which is kind of hurtful, to be honest. Sam knows Steve is intense about Bucky, but hey, they’d _both_ died this time, surely Sam was entitled to some BFF clinginess too.

“He didn’t watch _you_ turn to dust right in front of him,” says Barnes with a grimace.

Sam sucks in a breath. Yeah, okay, that would do it. “Shit.”

“Yeah. It’s fucked him up,” says Barnes, matter of fact. “So what’d he talk to you about earlier that had you pacing around the lake for hours?”

“It hasn’t been hours,” protests Sam, though he knows he’s splitting hairs. He’d been walking for nearly two hours, if not longer. “And, well. Steve offered me the shield. Said he’s ready to give up being Captain America, and he wants me to take on the mantle.”

Sam doesn’t know what reaction he’d expected out of Barnes, but this genuine, eye-crinkling smile, warmer and brighter than the late afternoon sun warming their faces, sure as hell hadn’t been it.

“Really? That’s great Sam, you’ll be an amazing Cap.”

“I haven’t said yes yet. It’s—it’s a lot, you know? And I’m no super soldier, or a super spy, I’m just a guy with some wings.”

Sure he’d told Fury once that he did everything Steve did, just slower. That worked out fine when Sam was the Falcon, the back up, the eyes in the sky. But if Sam’s gonna be Cap, he’s not sure it’ll be enough.

“Bullshit, you’re pararescue, aren’t you? And you’re an Avenger too,” says Barnes, just enough of a challenge in it that Sam’s spine straightens and his eyes narrow. Then with a crooked smile that’s all bitter wisdom, Barnes continues, “Maybe it’s for the best that you aren’t a super soldier anyway. Us super soldiers are weapons. We’re meant for the war, Sam. So maybe it’s time Cap isn’t a weapon. Maybe it’s time he’s the kind of guy who straps on a pair of wings to save people.”

Sam swallows hard, more touched than he cares to admit. It does feel right, is the thing, especially when Barnes puts it like that. Five years of living with the end of the world, and now it’s all been undone. Maybe that’s the kind of world that needs a Captain America like Sam more than it needs one like Steve. Maybe it _is_ time for a Cap who’s not just a soldier, tailor-made for fighting wars, and maybe it’s time for a Cap who’s not a white guy. Sam could do this, Sam could make this mean something.

“When the hell did you get all wise?” he asks Barnes, and Barnes shrugs.

“Therapy and meditation have worked out pretty great for me,” he says. Then he adds, solemn and deadpan, “Also, I’m really old.”

“Uh huh, ‘cause old guys are flexible enough to do that full lotus nonsense in a pair of tight as hell skinny jeans,” Sam says, and Barnes’ solemn expression lifts into a quick grin as he groans and fidgets on the bench.

“Okay, so in the interest of honesty, I only managed about four minutes of meditation earlier,” confesses Barnes, tugging at the fabric clinging to his thighs. Sam resolutely keeps his eyes from straying towards Barnes’ dick region. Not that his face region is any safer. Barnes’ beard is giving Sam some sexy beard burn-related ideas. “These pants are so tight.”

Fuck it, thinks Sam. He’s gonna shoot his shot and throw himself into making this particular post-funeral bad choice. He’ll get it out of his system, one way or another, diffuse some of his frantic, anxious restlessness into no strings attached sex, and then he’ll be able to face this brave new world with the appropriate level of superhero cool.

Sam looks at Barnes, and makes it obvious that he’s looking. He lets his eyes linger on those damn tight pants, and he smiles. Barnes tilts his head just the slightest bit, his attention focusing in on Sam like a beam of sunlight through a magnifying lens, exactly that bright and that ready to catch fire.

“Want me to help you take them off?” asks Sam.

It’s an awful pick up line, without even the forgiving haze of alcohol consumption to soften it, but whatever. This is the opening Sam has. And at least this way, if Barnes doesn’t want to take him up on it, they can just laugh it off.

After a couple of seconds of wide-eyed surprise, Barnes does in fact laugh, and it’s not a cruel or disbelieving kind of laugh: it’s a bright sound of sheer delight that makes his eyes sparkle and crease up sweetly as his cheeks actually turn pink, and Sam thinks, a little dazed with lust and want, _I did that_. It feels about as thrilling as pulling off some mid-air winged acrobatics, and it makes his stomach swoop and flutter in exactly the same way.

Which is about when Sam has his first inkling that this might take more than a post-funeral bad decision fuck to get out of his system.

“Yeah, okay,” says Barnes, and stands. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Barnes—shit, Sam’s gotta call him Bucky if they’re about to get acquainted with each other’s dicks, that feels like a first names kind of situation—leads Sam to the cabin, tucked up against the lakeshore a ways south of Stark’s lake house. They walk there in a buzzing kind of anticipatory silence, and each time Sam snatches a glance at Bucky, his eyes linger a little bit longer, caught by the loping grace of Bucky’s walk—which seems to be permanently set somewhere between a predator’s prowl and a model’s catwalk strut, it’s ridiculous—or struck by the way the late afternoon sunlight picks out the auburn in his hair and the sky color of his eyes. Sam can’t even remember the last time want had slammed into him this hard. He really needs to get this out of his system.

When they get to the cabin, Sam fumbles with the keys until he finds the right one, and lets them both in, the door groaning in protest. He wonders when was the last time someone was in here: five years ago? More?

“Let me just check the place out,” murmurs Bucky, and slips further into the cabin, disappearing into the hallway that presumably leads to the bedrooms.

Clearing the place is just good sense, but it leaves Sam at loose ends, turned on and thinking too hard about things that skim over the surface of what he’s about to do like rocks being skipped over a lake. Is this cabin the home of someone who’s recently returned to life? It’s hard to tell, the place just looks like a bland vacation rental, its dusty air stale with abandonment, its furniture the kind of thing that might once have been shabby chic but that’s now just shabby after years of neglect. Sam opens windows, and wonders: are they going to have enough time before Steve and Nat come back? He peeks inside kitchen cabinets filled with nothing but old canned goods and pots and pans, and thinks: maybe he should have prepared for this, because he doesn’t have condoms or lube or anything. He finds a glass and rinses it out and gulps down some water, and worries: maybe they shouldn’t do this.

But then Bucky emerges from the hallway, looking as calm as ever, and just the weight of his gaze is weirdly steadying. Sam feels real, under that stare, feels normal. There’s no chasm of missing time or weight of grief between him and Bucky. There’s just this want.

“All clear,” Bucky says, as his kimoyo bracelet chimes.

Sam nearly checks his phone on instinct, but of course, he doesn’t have one. He hasn’t got a cent to his name right now, or any possessions beyond those he’d scrounged together, currently sitting in the duffel bag that’s still in the car.

Before Sam can get a proper panic on about the fact that he’s basically got nothing but the clothes on his back and maybe the Captain America shield, Bucky looks up from the message projected above his wrist and says, “It’s Steve, he says they’re gonna be stuck in conference calls for a while, and that we should head back there whenever we want dinner.”

“So we’ve got time, is what you’re saying.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and takes his jacket off to reveal a black shirt that’s nearly as tight as his damn jeans. He tosses the jacket onto the back of the couch, and moves to take Sam’s suit jacket off for him too. Sam raises an eyebrow but he lets Bucky take the jacket, then Sam loosens his own tie, gratified when Bucky’s eyes follow the motion and linger at Sam’s throat. “How do you want to spend it?” asks Bucky.

Sam steps closer to him, giving the question the honest consideration it deserves as he studies Bucky. Bucky’s new prosthetic is in the same dark shades as the rest of his clothes, save for the shine of gold at the seams between the shifting plates that make up the musculature, as appealing in its own way as the lean muscles of Bucky’s right arm. Bucky’s waiting, still and patient as ever, while Sam thinks it over. He knows what this could be: quick hand jobs or blow jobs, nothing much more than impersonal relief, blowing off steam. Sam doesn’t think that’s going to cut it for him. He’s craving something more than a hand job that’s barely a step up from jerking himself off. He wants something that burns a little slower and hotter than that.

He pulls Bucky into a kiss, a dirty and thorough declaration of intent kind of kiss, one that Bucky returns with reckless focus, his hot mouth opening to Sam, his hands pulling Sam flush to him with casual strength. It’s like the first taste of food after a fast, the taste and abundance almost surprising, and one kiss turns to two, then three, each of them ungentle and hungry for it. It turns out that Bucky kisses like he fights: relentless and thrilling, single-minded.

Yeah, this isn’t gonna be a let’s jerk each other off and pretend it didn’t happen kind of deal, thinks Sam.

“That depends on our supply situation,” says Sam after he pulls back and catches his breath, and Bucky raises an eyebrow.

His expression is still even and controlled, but his lips are red and his cheeks are flushed, and god, Sam can’t decide if he wants to mess him up more, to see all this careful control shatter, or if he wants to sink into Bucky’s imperturbable calm like it has enough gravity to steady Sam’s wobbling orbit too.

“Well, let’s do some recon then,” Bucky says, his voice gone rough enough that just the sound of it practically rasps across Sam’s suddenly sensitive skin.

“After you,” says Sam, and Bucky grins at him, sharp and flashing like the flourish of a knife, before he turns towards the direction of the bedrooms.

* * *

The master bedroom has a bed in it, a big, king-sized wrought-iron number, which is a good start. It also has enough stuff in the closet that Sam suspects this isn’t a vacation rental, it’s someone’s actual vacation home, which makes him feel like some kind of perverted intruder. It’s not like he hasn’t squatted before; sometimes legal accommodations hadn’t been on offer while he, Steve, and Natasha had been on the run. But something about the post-post-apocalyptic circumstances, and the fact that the first thing they’re doing in here is fucking, makes this feel especially weird. Not weird enough that he’s not gonna do it, of course, but still. Weird.

Bucky rummages around in the connected bathroom while Sam pokes through drawers, and when he gets to the second nightstand’s bottom drawer, he hits the jackpot.

“Okay, so, I think this was some couple’s sexy getaway cabin, because damn.”

Bucky pokes his head back out of the bathroom. “What? What is it?” Sam pulls a hefty dildo out of the drawer and waves it in Bucky’s general direction. Bucky’s eyes go wide. “Wow,” he says.

“Uh huh. We don’t need to get that exciting here. Plus, I’m not about to use someone else’s sex toys.” Sam rummages around some more, trying not to touch anything more than he has to—he doesn’t even know what some of this shit _is_ —and pulls out a bottle of lube that seems like it hasn’t been used yet, and a box of condoms. “Just these’ll do.”

“Yeah they will,” says Bucky with a pleased grin, and then he’s walking back towards Sam and the bed, and goddamn, Sam abruptly understands how it’s possible to be scared and horny, because that mix of the Winter Soldier’s prowl and Bucky’s own hot-shit strut is going straight to Sam’s cock. Sam’s about 85% sure Bucky won’t hurt him, and that remaining 15% is just enough uncertainty for the blood-pumping thrill of a managed risk.

Before Sam knows it, they’re both on the bed, hands all over each other, kissing messily, but even like this, Bucky’s body language lacks the kind of frantic need that’s making Sam’s blood buzz. It’s not that Bucky’s not into it: he’s quiet save for soft sighs and barely audible hums of pleasure, but his hands on Sam are almost possessive, the press of his lips is firm and sure. It’s just that there’s still some indefinable restraint at the core of him, a cool and deep silence, and Sam very much wants to make him lose it.

“How the _fuck_ are you so calm,” Sam demands between kisses, and he feels it more than hears it when Bucky laughs, a couple of puffs of air against his lips, his cheek, before Bucky grabs Sam’s face, gently and inexorably, and kisses him long and deep, like he really wants to savor it. Sam finds himself draped on top of Bucky, pressing against him, and Bucky takes his weight easily, as steady and immovable as the trunks of one of the trees outside this cabin.

By the time Bucky finally releases him from the kiss, Sam’s so kiss-drunk that he’s almost forgotten his question. Still, Bucky answers him, those too-blue eyes fixed right on Sam’s, and it’s only because Sam’s so close and so caught by that stare that he sees the faintest hint of wild abandon sparking in them.

“Because the worst possible thing has already happened to me, again and again. Nowhere to go but up, Sam.”

Jesus, Sam can’t tell if that’s depressing as fuck or well-adjusted.

“Well alright, on that note, how about we move things along here?” says Sam, loosening the knot on his tie enough to pull it off and over his head. Sam had been planning on a rapid removal of their clothes, but Bucky has other ideas apparently, instead carefully unbuttoning Sam’s dress shirt.

Sam’s annoyed, sure, but he’s a little charmed by the care Bucky’s taking, his brow furrowed as he unbuttons each individual button, his vibranium fingers making a very faint clacking noise against them. When Sam raises his eyebrows in a silent question, Bucky wrinkles his nose, disconcertingly cute.

“What, you wanna have a real walk of shame back to Steve and the others when it’s dinner time?” Bucky says, and alright, that’s a good point.

So instead of ripping their clothes off, they take them off with some care, tossing them over the armchair in the corner of the room. It gives Sam an odd sense of deja vu—or not deja vu, but like some strange mix of memory and possibility: this is almost how it would be if this were real, if this were something more than a post-funeral, post-return from the dead fuck. They’d put their clothes away, they’d talk idly about their day, they’d take their time. Sam’s not sure he wants to contemplate that possibility, not with Bucky, or anyone else. Not when the future’s such an impenetrable fog of uncertainty.

It’s a relief when Sam can stop thinking about the unknowable near future and focus instead on the pleasant and faintly hilarious distraction of Bucky beginning to wriggle and shimmy out of his tight black jeans.

“I think getting out of these is gonna be a real undignified process,” he admits, and Sam laughs.

“How hard was it to get into them? Here, let me help,” says Sam, as if he doesn’t have an ulterior motive here. He tugs the pants down, but he lets his touch drag and linger as he pulls them down Bucky’s muscled thighs.

When they both have all their clothes off, there’s a long moment where they each look their fill. Bucky’s a goddamn supersoldier, so of course he makes a real pretty picture spread out under Sam, alltan skin over muscle, those long legs that look just as nice out of the tight jeans as in them, his cock half-hard in a neat thatch of brown curls. There are scars too, on his left shoulder where the skin meets vibranium, and though they’re pale and faded, there’s still something brutal about them. Bucky lets him look, patient and unselfconscious, and as he looks right back at Sam, even his desire is steady.

It drives Sam kind of wild, honestly. _Something_ has got to be enough to break that composure. Some naked groping and kissing seems like a good enough start, and Sam sure likes the feel of Bucky’s skin under his hands, likes the feel of Bucky’s own mismatched hands on him, the dense smoothness of the vibranium and the hectic heat of his bare skin. Sam’s hard enough by now that every time his cock brushes against Bucky’s, he almost gasps, and when Bucky’s hands grip Sam’s ass, giving him a firm squeeze, he groans and thrusts against him involuntarily, and that finally wins an actual moan out of Bucky. Just like that, Sam’s goddamn desperate to fuck him, to hear that sound again.

Before he can ask, Bucky beats him to it. “I haven’t been fucked in decades, c’mon,” he says, and spreads his legs.

Sam’s kind of curious about that, about just what kind of fucking Bucky had been doing back in the day, and with who, but that’s not the kind of thing you ask your post-funeral bad decision fuck.

“Yeah, okay,” says Sam instead, and reaches for the lube. “Turn over for me?”

For the first time, hesitation turns Bucky’s face uncertain. “Actually, can we—I’d prefer it if we faced each other.”

Bucky says the words with such deliberation that Sam knows they’re costing him something, that he wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t really need this. Sam kisses him in reassurance, until Bucky sighs into his mouth.

“Fine by me,” says Sam, though it’s not his usual preference, at least not for flings. Too awkward, usually, all that potential eye contact, the unavoidable intimacy. But Bucky’s asking, and he probably has a good reason for it, so Sam’s not opposed to going along with the request.

He pours some lube into his hand and fingers Bucky open, reveling in the contrast between the lax and pliant sprawl of Bucky’s body under him and the tightness around his fingers. Bucky’s not content to just take it; he pulls Sam down with a hand on his neck and kisses him slow and dirty, until Sam’s barely got the presence of mind to keep opening Bucky up, the rhythm of his fingers turning slow and deep to keep time with the way Bucky’s tongue is fucking into his mouth. Goddamn Bucky Barnes and his leisurely goddamn patience, thinks Sam, and retaliates by adding a finger and going faster, harder, until their kissing gets sloppy and Bucky’s gasping and grinding impatiently against him, and that’s all the encouragement Sam needs.

“C’mon, I’m ready, get to it already,” says Bucky, breathless, as if he wasn’t the one who’d been setting a honey-slow pace earlier.

Sam gropes around for the box of condoms, distracted by Bucky’s roaming hands—the smooth slide of his vibranium thumb over Sam’s nipple is something Sam wants to explore further—and eventually fishes one out and tears it open. There’s some clumsy and sweaty wriggling around and murmured instructions as they get in position. Of course Bucky’s flexible enough that Sam can just about bend him in half until his legs are practically hooked above Sam’s shoulders, Sam holding him up by his thighs as he fucks into him. The first push in is so tight and hot and perfect that Sam just has to hold the position for a moment, feeling Bucky clench around him and watching him throw his head back, eyes fluttering closed as his muscles relax even more, and yeah, this, this is what Sam’s been wanting since Bucky’s dumb tight jeans had started giving him ideas.

“Fuck,” says Bucky, the word little more than a shaky exhalation, and Sam groans.

“Alright?” he asks, and Bucky nods.

Bucky squeezes him with his thighs, a silent goad to move, so Sam does, trying out a couple of deep and slow thrusts before speeding up. He can feel Bucky’s hard cock brushing against his stomach, but Bucky’s hands aren’t there, they’re on Sam, on his neck and against his jaw, pulling him in for rough kisses with each thrust, his beard scraping against Sam’s in a shiver-inducing sensation. Sam pushes in, harder and faster, and Bucky gasps and shifts his hips, takes him in deeper.

Sam’s keyed up and close, and Bucky must be able to tell, because his grip on the back of Sam’s neck goes just this side of bruising, his dark eyes holding Sam’s gaze with something like a challenge, and he says, “Hey, make this last, c’mon.”

“Someone’s demanding,” pants Sam, and thrusts harder, hard enough to make Bucky’s eyes flutter closed again, a breathy almost-moan escaping his lips.

“What, are you saying you can’t?” asks Bucky, and oh, Sam is gonna get him back for that.

“Say please,” says Sam, and it’s not quite the taunt he means it to be.

Bucky yanks Sam’s head down for another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and devouring, and Sam’s pace slows without his meaning to. He can’t tell if the heartbeat he can feel pounding through him where they’re joined is his, or Bucky’s, all he knows is that it’s one all-encompassing pulse of need.

Bucky moves his mouth from Sam’s and brings it to Sam’s ear instead, his voice rough and raw as he says, “Please,” and follows it up with a vicious little nip to Sam’s earlobe that sends shivery lightning zinging down his spine and has him picking up the pace again.

Sam’s hands are growing slick with sweat now, his arms straining to hold Bucky up, the muscles of his thighs and lower back beginning to burn with exertion, and this is it, this is what Sam’s been chasing, the perfect mindlessness of his body’s need, the best kind of reminder that he’s still alive. Maybe Bucky’s finally getting there too, because his breath is coming in panting gasps, and each time Sam slams into his prostate, he makes a desperate little sound, and it’s that together with the needy grip of Bucky’s thighs that sends him over the edge at last, his orgasm hitting him with a cresting release that crashes through him until he feels scraped raw and clean, new, all the dust of death and resurrection blown away.

Sam collapses against Bucky, distantly aware of Bucky’s still hard cock trapped between them. He doesn’t fully pull out yet, though his cock is softening and the oversensitivity is going to be real uncomfortable soon. Instead, he summons up enough energy to lean in and mouth at the sweat-salty skin under Bucky’s jaw.

“Your turn,” Sam tells him, and Bucky shudders and moans. When Sam lifts his head, he’s gifted with the sight of Bucky’s eyes gone glassy and almost wild, no more searing focus, just desperate want. “C’mon, touch yourself,” he urges, and Bucky slips his hand between their bodies to stroke his cock, fast and rough.

“What, no making it last now?” asks Sam, and Bucky laughs, breathless, and god, that’s a hell of a pretty sight, his flushed cheeks and red, kiss-swollen mouth and dark eyes gone more gray than blue.

“Fuck you,” he says, but he does slow his pace down, looking straight at Sam, and _fuck_.

There’s that goddamn _patience_ again, even here, even now, and it still drives Sam wild with wanting. Whether he wants to wreck that patience or fill himself up with it, he doesn’t know, he just knows he _wants._ He kisses Bucky, bruising and clumsy, and feels like he’s won something when Bucky moans into his mouth. Sam’s pretty sure it’s not physically possible for his cock to get hard again right now, but it sure makes a valiant effort as Sam watches Bucky stroke his own cock slow and steady, precome making it slick.

“Yeah, like that,” Sam says, surprised by how hungry his own voice sounds. “Just like that.”

Bucky’s back arches under his own touch and he moans again, and Sam can’t take it, he reaches between their bodies and gets a hand on Bucky’s cock, winning a sound from Bucky that’s almost a sob. Slow or not, it only takes a few more strokes before Bucky comes, all over his stomach, shaking with the force of it.

Sam flops to the side, his muscles shivering pleasantly from all the exertion as he fumbles to get the condom off—he’ll deal with it later, once he’s caught his breath—and when he glances over at Bucky, Bucky looks downright beatific. Sex, it turns out, doesn’t especially disturb his well of calm, it only seems to make it go sparkling and effervescent, contagious. Sam’s not mad about it, really. But fuck, he already wants more.

“We’re gonna have to shower if we’re gonna be decent for dinner,” says Sam, unable to resist tracing a finger along the defined muscles of Bucky’s abs.

“Yeah, probably,” says Bucky, his tone downright dreamy. Sam grins, charmed. Post-orgasm high is a good look on Bucky. He wonders if Bucky’s the cuddly type, tempted by the blurred softness of his expression and the warmth of his body.

But then Bucky’s kimoyo bracelet chimes, and Sam’s close enough to see the message when a twist of Bucky’s wrist projects it up into the air: _are you and Sam at the cabin? We’re about to have dinner._

“Shit,” he and Bucky say simultaneously, and rocket off the bed to the shower.

* * *

They avoid a walk of shame, _barely_. They take a quick, bruising shower together—the shower is way too damn small for two grown men of their size, and there’s a lot of inadvertent elbowing and bumping into the tiles going on—managing little more than a quick wash up while Bucky hisses at him about making sure his hair doesn’t get wet.

Still, when it’s done and they’re about as presentable as they’re gonna get, Sam and Bucky head back to the lake house for a quiet dinner with those Avengers who are sticking around for the night. Steve greets them with clingy hugs, his exhaustion obvious in the way he slumps against Sam.

“Sorry that took so long,” Steve says. “You two doing okay? I know it’s been crazy these last few days, and there’s a lot to process, it’s okay if you need…” Steve trails off and squints at Sam, then at Bucky. “Never mind. You two look…relaxed.”

Bucky smiles, and to Sam it has the distinct, serene glow of a well-fucked man. “Yeah, I got some meditation in, I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Sam, and only belatedly realizes just what he’s cosigned. “We meditated…together,” he adds. “Tried to, you know, process everything.”

Which makes it worse, fuck. One of Bucky’s eyebrows twitches up a couple of millimeters in a way that says _oh is that what they’re calling it these days_? Sam only barely resists closing his eyes in mortification.

Steve smiles back, apparently accepting this explanation, but when Sam glances over at her, Natasha’s narrowing her eyes, her lips curving up just the slightest bit. Shit, Sam needs a distraction.

“And?” asks Steve. “How’s the processing going?” He’s smiling still, but there’s concern in his eyes, and some desperate sadness that Sam’s hoping will ease, in time.

Sam takes a deep breath, straightens his spine, and looks Steve in the eye. “Pretty good. I did that thinking I mentioned earlier, about the shield. And I have an answer for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My answer is yes. I’ll take the shield. I’ll be Captain America.”

As Steve nearly crushes him with a hug, panic nearly rises in Sam again, because holy shit, what does he think he’s _doing_ , how can he be _the Captain America_ , but then he looks over Steve’s shoulder at Bucky, and sees that bright calm, and remembers what Bucky had said. Sam can do this. Sam can be the kind of Cap who straps on a pair of wings to save people, shield in hand.

And maybe, thinks Sam, looking at Bucky's almost secretive smile, he can find a way to turn his post-funeral bad decisions into a new beginning for a new life.


End file.
